


Breakfast II

by supersoakerx



Series: Breakfast [2]
Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Ice, Nipple Play, Vaginal Fingering, clothes pegs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23910244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoakerx/pseuds/supersoakerx
Summary: You go for a morning jog with Pat and things get *messy* fast, with ice, clothes pegs and a peach.
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You, Paterson x You, paterson x reader
Series: Breakfast [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724026
Comments: 7
Kudos: 26





	Breakfast II

You lay in bed, cozy, warm bed, not wanting to get up just yet, and definitely not wanting to go for a jog. It’s the weekend, for one, and for two it looked overcast and chilly outside.

Pat sits on the couch, fully dressed and tying the laces on his joggers when he hears you call from the bedroom.

“I think it’s gonna rain, Pat.”

He smiles as he ties the last knot. “It’ll be fine, honey,” he calls back, getting up and heading back to the bedroom to try, for the third time, to rouse you from your cozy cocoon.

“Let me just check,” you grab your phone from the bedside table and open the weather app.

Pat leans on the doorframe, smiles lovingly at you snuggled up in a mess of blankets. “Remember when the weather had its own page in the newspaper?”

You roll your eyes at him and squint at your phone, trying to focus your morning-bleary eyes on the screen.

Pat huffs a small chuckle and walks over, crawls onto the bed and holds himself above you. “What? You remember newspapers, don’t you honey? Before all this,” with his nose he nudges your hands, which clasp your phone, out of the way of your face. He hums. “That’s better. There’s my peach,” he smiles, gazing upon your still-sleepy morning face and nuzzling the tip of your nose with his own.

You give him a lazy smile back. “We should get the towels off the line before we go. _If_ we go. The app said—”

“Oh, the app this, the app that,” he mimics, getting up off the bed and holding his hand out to you. “Let’s just do this you and me, honey. Just us. If it rains it rains, it’s only water.” He gulps at the end, the image of you dripping wet with your t-shirt clinging to you flashing into his mind unbidden. He brushes it off.

You sigh, resigned to this stupidly gorgeous man with his handsome face and beautiful hair, arm outstretched to you.

“Fine,” you grab his hand, and he pulls you up out of bed.

**XXXX**

Paterson was not at all prepared for this. All he wanted was a happy, healthy start to your weekend together: a cruisy, easy jog, with a bit of walking sprinkled in when either of you got tired.

What a silly idea.

What he had not anticipated—and he really, really should have—was the way your gorgeous, luscious chest moved and bounced with every step, the way your breaths huffed and puffed, the way sweat beaded at your hairline and above your top lip.

Pat keeps sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye, only making it worse and worse for himself. He breathes hard, tries to stay focused on one foot in front of the other, but he’s transfixed by the rhythmic bouncing of your breasts and he almost falters _several_ times.

 _Such_ a silly idea.

He thinks about that time you let him lick and suck maple syrup off your breasts while you rode him, around this time of the morning, and he almost groans out loud, needing to get home _now_.

**XXXX**

Pat can’t stop his sigh of relief when you round the corner onto your street. You’re almost home, but tiny, cold droplets start to fall from the sky.

“Almost there,” he puffs, and you hum in reply, smug satisfaction about the impending rain completely overridden by feeling good and exercised and sweaty. You had been listening to—perving on—Pat’s sounds of exertion the whole time, and they’d done wicked things to you.

Just as you both come to a stop near your letterbox, huffing and puffing and panting, the heavens open.

Pat gawks for a moment as rain drops land on your shirt and start to seep through it. He can see just the faintest, subtlest outline of your nipples… or is he just imagining that, wishing it were so?

“Oh my God, shit, the towels, Pat!” You panic, starting up the path, “help me, baby, please,” you race around to the side gate, fumbling with the lock as icy cold rain sparks on your hot, sweaty skin.

**XXXX**

Once inside, your washing now safe, you make straight for the fridge. “Water, baby?” you ask, breathless and parched, pouring yourself a drink of cold water and dropping some ice cubes in.

“That’d be great, honey,” Pat replies, equally out of breath, putting down the last of the towels. When he turns to look at you, his mouth drops open and his eyes go wide.

You stand at the kitchen counter, hair and shirt soaked, guzzling a glass of iced water so cold that condensation wets your fingers, and so fast and sloppy that some of the water dribbles from the sides of your mouth.

Paterson almost whines aloud. He can’t process anything he’s seen this morning, can’t stop the rush of images flashing in his mind: seeing your breasts bounce as you run, rain soaking through your shirt, ice clinking and water running down your face as you try to drink, so thirsty, and, he realises, the tiny wooden clothes pegs he didn’t know he was holding. What’s more, and he’s definitely not imagining it this time, your stiff nipples show proudly through your bra and shirt, like they’re calling to him, begging him for attention. He swallows hard.

You drain your glass with an “ahh” and fill one for Pat, holding it out to him as you wipe away the little dribbles from the sides of your mouth. “Ugh God, I was so thirsty, baby. That jog—”

Rudely, Pat doesn’t really listen to anything else that leaves your mouth. He keeps his eyes locked with you, of course, but as he chugs down the cold drink his mind races with too many thoughts, too many things he hopes you’ll let him do to you. He squeezes the pegs in his palm.

You’re mid-sentence about pancakes and taking a shower and he sets his glass down and says, “do you trust me, honey?”

You stop abruptly: you’d had a feeling he was zoning out. You grab a peach from the dining table—feeling peckish and ready for breakfast—and start towards the couch, preparing to talk with Pat about whatever is troubling him. You kinda wish you could take off your wet shirt though.

“’Course, baby,” you smile at him as you sidle past him, eyeing up the fruit you grabbed, “what—”

He grasps your arm, just a gentle touch at your elbow to stop you still, and leans down to whisper, “you don’t know how good you look right now, little peach.”

You glance at him, a smile playing at your lips. “I look good, baby?”

He smiles, eyes crinkling and dimples popping, so warm and tender and full of love and then, he blinks a few times, settling himself. He can’t lose his cool now, even though you look as good today as you did the first day he met you, and every day in between. He glances down to his closed palm for a moment, then back to your face.

He looks a bit nervous now, his brows pulling up and in just a little, his eyes that little bit bigger, and _blacker_ , you notice, pleading with you. He takes a deep breath, and in a quiet voice he asks, “can I play with you, honey?”

You nod, slow but sure, feeling trickles of arousal seep through your body. “You want—now, baby?”

“Please,” he says, “with these,” he holds his open palm out to you, showing you the little wooden pegs, “and that,” with his other hand he points to your glass on the countertop, cubes of ice making a cold little mountain at the bottom, melting ever so slowly.

It makes sense now, what he asked you before. “Ok, baby. I trust you, Pat.”

His eyes light up, “you don’t know how happy you make me, honey.”

You glance down, pretending to size him up between his legs. “Hmm, I think I do,” you joke, and he chuckles, Adam’s apple bobbing, making your heart do a flip in your chest. “Where do you want me, baby?”

Pat glances around the kitchen, living room, considers something for a sec. “Couch.”

“Ok,” you go to place your piece of fruit back in the bowl-

“Keep it.”

You turn and glance at him, holding the peach in your hand, unsure. What on earth could he be planning-

Pat licks his lips. “Keep it, honey.”

You smile and turn away, making your way over to the couch and sit perched on the edge of it.

There’s some kind of noise in the kitchen, and a few moments later Pat saunters over to you, holding two pegs and a glass full of ice, which he sets down on the coffee table behind him.

He’s thrumming with excitement, heart pounding in his chest, and he gently parts your legs and kneels between them. You’re at eye level now, his beautiful brown orbs blazing molten hot.

His palms trail up your sides to grip your waist as he breathes over your lips, “God I want to kiss you, honey,” he slants his head to the other size, grazing your lips and nose with his own, “you looked so good, I was watching your tits bounce,” his voice goes quiet at the end, like it’s a secret for just the two of you. His hands trail up your sides to your ribs and he squeezes.

Warmth flushes your body. “You were watching me, Pat?”

“Mmm,” he hums as his hands trail over your breasts, big and warm even beneath your layers, “watched you get all wet.”

You tilt and turn your head to try and catch his mouth in a kiss, but his mouth trails hot air down over your jaw, your neck. “Did you _want_ it to rain today, baby?” you murmur breathily, something telling you he _would_ be that devious.

He cups your breasts through your shirt and bra and leans in to your mouth again, his breaths a little shaky and eyes near closing, “maybe I did. Maybe I wanted to see _these_ ,” he squeezes and massages your flesh, “get stiff,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, “and wet,” kisses the side of your chin, “and cold,” kisses your neck.

You sigh, his hot hands such a contrast from the cold, wet shirt, starting to chill you now as a shiver runs through you. You can both feel your nipples pebbling to hard peaks under his touch as he presses kisses down your neck. “I-I’m sweaty, honey,” you remember all of a sudden, self-conscious.

“Don’t care—tastes good,” Pat murmurs, letting out a low and breathy groan at the feel of your hard nipples, “want to kiss these,” he murmurs into your skin, slipping his hands under your shirt to cup your breasts where they rest in your bra, “’til they’re so stiff and swollen,” he licks and sucks gently at up your neck, “full of b-blood,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, along the outside of your bottom lip, “so big and s-sensitive-“

You pull him into a searing kiss, fingers fisting in the hair at the nape of his neck, cradling his head to yours. His lips and tongue are so perfectly hot and wet, and your mouths open to each other easily, thankfully, hungrily. Paterson groans into the kiss, hands slipping around your back to unclasp the hooks of your bra.

You sigh when your breasts are free, finally, and in an instant Pat whips your shirt and bra to the floor and hunts down your mouth again, one hand in the middle of your back pulling you close, and the other trailing light circles around the outside of your breast.

You moan into his mouth, pulling his big hand up to cup your flesh entirely, his palm rubbing up against your hard nipple.

Pat groans at the feel of the bare little bud in his palm, pulling away from your kiss to grip both your breasts in his big hands, eyes wide in wonder, marvelling at the look and feel and size and shape and weight of them, so perfect, so you.

“HhhI love your tits, peach,” he sighs breathily, dreamily, sounding like he’s in a daze before he ducks his head and sucks a nipple into his hot, wet mouth.

You hum and arch your back, pressing your chest into his face. He licks and laves and sucks at the stiff bud, his hand holding your flesh tenderly. Ever so skilled, your Pat, his thumb brushes back and forth over your nipple in his other hand.

Pleasure sparks in your tits, in your clit, and you can feel yourself starting to drool onto your underwear.

Paterson pulls off your nipple with a little wet pop and kisses his way over to your other breast. His hand stays behind, fingertip circling your areola, slippery with his spit.

He licks at your other nipple, latches his lips around it and sucks, laves at the stiff hot peak with his tongue. Every time his tongue passes over the hard bud, Pat swears he can feel his cock drip. He loves this too fucking much.

Your moans are like music, like a symphony of pleasure that thrills him, soothes him, makes his heart race as much as it calm and settles him. You’re letting him, you’ll always let him, you’re as devoted to him as he is to you and, “you’re so good to me, honey,” he blurts out onto your nipple.

One hand holding yourself up, the other cards through his hair, the nail of one finger trailing along the shell of his ear and making him shiver. “Why don’t you do those things you wanted to do, Pat?”

Looking up at you, he places a chaste kiss to your nipple and glances to the coffee table behind. The ice had melted a little bit, a few millilitres of chilled water resting at the bottom of the glass, those innocuous little pegs waiting patiently beside it.

His gaze flicks down to your nipples, looking darker, fuller, swollen and sumptuously erect. His mouth waters, but he knows ways to tease you—and himself—even more.

He grabs the glass and tips a cube of ice into his mouth, leans down and presses closed mouth kisses to your thighs as it chills his lips and tongue.

By the time he works his way up your body and back to your breasts, he knows he’s ready. He leans in and holds the ice between his lips, circles your areola with it, delighting in your shiver and sigh and the heightened pebbling the cold cube and his chilled lips have on your skin.

The ice melts onto your flesh, leaving trails of water behind, and when it’s about half the size it was he sucks your nipple into his mouth again, the chill of it and his cold mouth lapping at you making you cry out.

Only when it’s completely melted does Pat let up, pop another ice cube into his mouth and get to work on your other breast.

The sensation of the cold ice and his cold, but usually hot tongue is driving you wild. The heat pulsing between your legs feels even hotter, more intense than usual, in sharp contrast to your breasts and he’s drawing out long, keening moans from your throat.

He rubs the ice into your nipple with his tongue, groaning and huffing as he licks and laps at the stiff bud. He feels you trying to close your legs, you must need to get some friction on your clit, must be _wet_ , but he’s not done playing with you just yet. Pat doesn’t move from between your spread knees, and deals with your thighs crushing his hips.

“Oh, please,” you whine, as you feel the last of the ice dissolve on your nipple, in his mouth. “Baby. Please.”

Pat leans away and gazes into your eyes with his own unending seas of black. “You trust me, honey?” he asks, glancing down at your chest and licking his lips.

“I do, baby,” you mutter, feeling a little breathless, a little too riled up. You can feel your pulse beating between your legs.

Pat eyes your chest: your nipples are engorged in size, deeper in colour, just utterly perfect for what he wants to do next. His hard cock throbs with need.

He grabs the little wooden clothes pegs and looks at you earnestly. “At any point, you tell me, ok honey?”

Your chest is rising and falling rapidly: at this point, he could ask you for anything, anything at all and you’d let him have it, as long as he’ll give you some release, relief.

Pat squints at you for a second, cradles your face in his hands. “I need you to hear me, honey. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t, Pat, you won’t,” you blurt out, gazing deep into his eyes, “I’ll tell you, I promise, just _please_.”

His eyes flit between yours, deciding you’re sound enough of mind to go through with this. He grips the waistband of your yoga pants and starts to tug them and your underwear down and off. With your legs spread before him, your pussy is on full display, and Pat’s breath catches in his throat.

“You’re, so pretty, honey,” he breathes, eyes locked on your core, “you’re _glistening_ , peaches… so pretty.” He licks his lips, swallows hard.

“Pat, please. Thank you, baby but, please.” You can hear the desperation in your own voice.

He flicks his gaze to yours, nods quickly. “Sorry, honey,” he shuffles forward, nuzzling into your breasts with his nose, pressing little pecks to your flesh, “sorry, I, you’re so pretty,” he pushes your breasts together as far as they can go, licks long stripes right up your nipples, “too pretty, honey, I l-love you.”

You hum it back to him, breathless and his tongue works over your nipples, his hot tongue heightening your arousal and keeping you on edge.

When he’s slicked you up all over again, he cautions, panting, “this’ll pinch, honey.”

“I can take it, baby,” you assure him, as he pinches one of the pegs open and positions it over your hard peak, “I can taaake—aahh!”

He gently, slowly, closes the peg over your stiff nipple, and you whine through the heady, delicious mix of pleasure-pain it sends through your breast, straight down to your cunt.

Paterson can’t believe his eyes, his ears, pulse hammering and sweat beading and thinks he could pass out from it all at any moment. He pants through his words, breath coming hard and fast, “another, ok? Last one, please honey, can you?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant, eyes screwed shut as the sensations, pleasure, pinching, numbness, pleasure, roll through you in waves.

Pat eases the other peg closed around your other erect nipple, gently and softly letting the tension of the spring pinch your flesh. Your moan sends another throb of arousal through Pat’s cock and he’s certain, certain, his dick dribbling and drooling all over his trunks, making a mess of them.

Sitting back on his haunches, gaze flicking between your breasts, your eyes, your juicy pussy and back, Paterson licks his lips. “Lean back. You’re doing so well, honey,” he grabs the peach from where you’d dropped it on the couch sometime earlier, “eat this and I’ll take them off, and it’ll feel so good. I promise, honey, I’ll make you feel so good, I will.”

Your heart thuds in your chest as you settle back on the couch cushions, drawing the peach ever closer to your lips—and not just because your nipples are being pinched in the most exquisite pleasure-pain—but because mirroring your motions, Pat sinks down between your legs.

He snakes his arms under your thighs, lifting your legs onto his shoulders, and anchors his palms to the tops of your thighs to hold you in place. His eyes are dark, focused, burning.

You lick your lips, holding the fruit just in front of your mouth, and you hear Pat’s deep inhale and quiet murmur from between your legs, “you smell so fucking sweet, peaches,” a moment before you sink your teeth into the juicy flesh and Pat instantly devours your pussy, licking big wet sloppy stripes up your dripping slit in quick succession.

You moan with a mouth full of peach as he licks and laps at your folds, and Pat glances up to see you go to wipe away some of the fruit’s juice that dribbled out of your mouth.

“No!” he exclaims into your puffy, slick folds. “No honey, please,” he’s imploring you with big brown eyes, his plush pink lips and chin shiny with your cum.

You chew and swallow the fruit, let the juice slip out the side of your mouth, drop down your chin to your chest, and seep slowly slowly slowly down over your sternum.

Your heart is racing, pulse throbbing in your core as Pat stares, transfixed, at the little dribble of peach juice. He’s watching you, and you’re watching him, the air around you thick and steamy and sticky sweet.

He wants it, he’s waiting, he’ll be so so patient for it if it just trickles down a little more. “Almost there… almost… come on…” he murmurs, so quietly you don’t think he realises he said it out loud. He leans, following the peach juice down between your legs as it slips down and over your belly, onto your mound, and just as the sweet little drop drips over onto your sex he catches it on his tongue and licks and sucks it off your clit, moaning into your pussy.

“God, Pat!” you cry out, the sensations on your nipples, your clit, the messiness of the fruit, sending you into a state of heightened pleasure.

“Again, honey, eat it all,” Pat encourages, dipping his tongue back between your folds again, licking up and along and around your slick lips, your engorged clit.

You take another bite, sloppy, not caring if any more drops of juice slip out of your mouth. Little dribbles trickle down, all the way down your body, and Pat licks and laves and laps at all the—so much of the—sweet, juicy nectar that his ripe, plump peach is making for him, huffing and grunting into your cunt.

You eat down to the seed, panting and groaning as Pat sucks and nibbles on your stiff clit, slurps messily at your folds. He glances up from between your legs, and he looks so fucking good like this, lips wrapped around your clit, nose resting on your mound and eyes so black and penetrating.

He sees a glossy river of dried sticky peach juice in a long trail down your front, your nipples pinched tight in the pegs and he knows, it’s time, it’s _so_ time.

Pat swipes his tongue in long lines up your folds, collecting your cum where it drips from your core and smearing it up all over you, your whimpers going straight through him.

He teases for only a few moments, before sitting up between your legs again, licking his lips for any remnants of your essence.

You growl and launch up, pulling his face to yours, licking over his chin and his lips, gathering up your sweetness and his spit and kissing it back into his mouth.

He groans and slides his tongue around yours, licking and tasting and swallowing it down hungrily. You run your palm down his belly, slip your hand inside the waistband of his shorts and feel the stiff, throbbing need he’d kept hidden there. “Pat,” you gasp into his mouth, and he pulls away, licking along your chin and neck and chest at the sticky juice.

“’mm gonna take these off now, honey,” he pants between licks and kisses, “’might feel like a lot, but I’ve got you,” you don’t see it but he slips a hand between your legs, “I’ve got you, honey,” he murmurs and the next thing you know he slips a thick fat finger into your molten core.

You gasp and moan out, “yes! Pat, mmhm,” and tilt your hips up, trying to get more of him inside you, even when he’s buried to the knuckle and there is no more of him to fit. “Another one, ‘nother fffinger, please,” you whimper, and how can Pat deny you?

He dips a second finger into your hot, tight, wet cunt and with his other hand, he grasps one of the pegs and slowly, gently, eases it open as he kisses the soft flesh of your breast.

Quick and sharp as a snap, the feeling is magnificent, all the blood and feeling rushing back to your nerves in a flash and then—oh, then—his mouth is on you, wrapped around your flushed, swollen, super sensitive nipple and you almost scream, could cry, are almost crying from the intense and blinding pleasure of the pinching peg releasing and his hot, wet mouth enveloping and his long, thick fingers pumping.

You moan out his name and he groans, feeling wild, feeling rabid, rocking his hips against the base of the couch to get any kind of friction on his thick and throbbing cock.

He pulls off that nipple with a pop and reaches his arm across to your other breast. He does the same again, gently releasing the clamped-on peg and immediately following the sudden and intense rush of pleasure with his tongue and lips and hot wet spit. It’s all you can do not to squeal his name over and over, gushing yet more slick all over his fingers.

Pegs now completely off, he shoves his hand into his trunks and tugs on his cock, groaning as he slides his fat, slippery fingers in and out of your soaked pussy, and he doesn’t let up kissing and licking and sucking your nipples, flicking over the extremely-sensitive buds with the stiff tip of his tongue.

You’re bucking shamelessly onto his hand, a persistent ache throbbing between your legs. You need to cum so bad it almost hurts, and you tell him as much. “Baby, I’m so close. I need to cum, Pat, make me cum, baby.”

He growls out a deep groan and pulls away from your chest, gazing into your eyes as he searches out that special spot inside you, along the front of you, and when he’s got it he presses, rubs, plays with it just how you like, making your eyes water and your mouth hang open. “Want to make you cum on my cock, little peach,” he murmurs, “want to fill your pretty pussy with my cum, want you to ff-fucking suffocate me with these tits.”

You try to clarify with him between gasps and moans, “Pat? Hhnn-b-baby?”

Pat throws his head back and groans, “ride my cock and smother me, honey,” he pants, talking over your squelching sloppy cunt, “want to c-cum with your tits in my face, cut off my air with ‘em, please, honey.”

With a frustrated cry you still his hand, shaking and trembling from stopping your own impending orgasm. “Get—get up on the couch, baby,” you choke out, stifling a groan when his fingers slip out of you.

You undress and manoeuvre yourselves, Pat resting back against the cushions while you straddle him, and he slicks his cock up with all the cum on the fingers he massaged your insides with.

You feel so hot, too hot, about to burst and break into a million pieces. “I can’t wait any longer, baby.”

“I know, I know, me too, honey,” Pat coos, standing his cock up so beautifully straight and angled just perfectly for you to sink down onto, “there you go, peaches, just drop right down on it for me.”

You lower yourself down slowly, tremors running through your body, and Pat’s too. You shudder when the thickest part of him, that fat swollen head, plunges into you, and he moans, “mmm fuck, yes honey, please more.”

You drop suddenly and sheath him the rest of the way in a single move, moaning loud as his cock stretches you. Paterson groans and growls, “Uughh, God, you feel so good, so fffuck—so tight, honey,” and wraps his hands around your back, pulling you close to him, nuzzling his face into your chest. “Every time, every time,” he mutters, tilting his hips up rhythmically.

You rock on him, dragging your puffy wet pussy over his rock hard cock, wrenching choked groans and needy moans from both of you.

He grips your breasts in his big warm hands and pushes them together as far as they can go. He presses his face as close into them as he can get, kissing and licking and gently sucking on your skin, wanting to devour you, wanting to _live_ in you.

You cradle the back of his head to your chest and start to bounce on him now, and every drag of your tight cunt over his drenched cock makes those delicious slick-slick-slick sounds.

He pulls back just slightly and his face, it’s all screwed up and red and it’s like he’s begging, pleading, “y-you keep fffuck!—fucking me like that and I’ll cum, _oh my God_ , I’ll fucking cum, honey. I can’t-”

“I know, baby, Pat, I want you to,” you shove his hand down between your legs and you hold your tits together for him, “I want you to cum.”

He roars into your chest, rubbing his nose and big wet open mouth and whole face over your tits, totally lost, totally gone as your pussy milks his cock so perfectly. You know just how to fuck him, just what he likes, it sends him mad with lust.

His thumb rubs circles into your clit and he’s trying so hard to make it good for you, bucking up into you and laving over your nipples, but he-

“I can’t hold on honey, I can’t, please cum, please cum.”

“Hold on, hold on for me, baby, _right_ there, right _fucking_ there,” you moan, Pat having found such a good rhythm, such a good pressure on your clit, and his cock, fuck it was filling you up so fucking good, “just like that, _yes!_ ”

His brow scrunches up, bites his lip so hard he think he’ll pierce it with his canines, his orgasm threatening to overwhelm him and break him and-

“Pat!” you yell, “I’m gonna fucking cum, Pat! Fuck!”

“Shit, shit, shit,” he pants, needing to bring you off now, in a fucking hurry, before he loses his goddamn mind: so he rubs two thick fingers so fast and hard over your clit that you scream when you cum, your orgasm tearing through you almost immediately, blinding, deafening, flooding your body with bright white burning heat and bliss.

“Fuck!” Paterson groans, slamming you down onto his cock so he can feel all the clenching and spasming and squeezing of your silky cunt, milking his cock as he cums, and cums, and cums, flooding your pussy with his seed.

You’re still panting and clenching on him when you both feel it, so much it slowly oozes out of you, dripping down his balls in thick wet creamy globs. He’s holding you, clutching you close to his chest, arms wrapped around your sweaty back. You rest in the crook of his shoulder, pressing soft, chaste kisses to his sweat-salty neck.

It's so dirty, but it's so sweet too. Just like the pair of you.

After a few gorgeous moments, you feel your thighs start to cramp up. You lean up into his face. “Shower with me?” He nods. “Cook me pancakes?” He chuckles, teeth and dimples and all, his softening cock vibrating inside you.

“I’m sure I can rustle up something tasty for breakfast, honey,” he says, voice sex-groggy and deep, and boops you on the nose.

“I’m sure you can too, baby,” you reply, pressing your lips to his in a soft and gentle kiss, "something with peaches?"


End file.
